At the end of every summer the days start to vanish - the skies turn white, and then gray, and then overwhelmingly, endlessly, inescapablyblack.

We ran into that house with the windStomping up steps the snow would fall off our wet boots and squeals and laughs and cries would fall out of our cold cracking violet lipsAnd we would close the door on darkness.My heart kept time slowly then,its rhythm stronger and steadier than the shiver that ran through my skin.

We would sit down side by side on matching green pillowsshort legs stuffed under a small table.Our bowls of spiced soup steamed before us,the sacred red broth mixing with our bloodso our arms and legs and hearts could grow.

The days are white, turning graybut this timewhen it’s black I’ll be alonestanding over a stove in someone else’s kitchenremembering those perfect bowlsthat served to satiate our sleepy souls.

As my heartbeat fades beneath the sound of my chattering teethI’ll keep bowls of gypsy soupwarm on the tableand wait for my brother towander in from the cold.